


An Ear of Corn in Silence Reaped: The 124th Hunger Games

by corico



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arena (Hunger Games), Careers (Hunger Games), District 9 (Hunger Games), Gen, Hunger Games, Hunger Games Tributes, Hunger Games-Typical Death/Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Original Arena(s) (Hunger Games), Original Character(s), POV First Person, POV Male Character, POV Original Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26660233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corico/pseuds/corico
Summary: Sunrise. The dull, grey sky dissipates in the waking gold. I see myself, standing in the rippling field. Flashes of colour. Orange. Gold. Blue. And then an inescapable red. The wind’s howling halts, just as the blood drips from my fingers.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 6





	1. Quiet Nine

**Dmitri Elburn  
District Nine  
Fieldworker**

The rattling walls wake me with a start. It’s early morning, middle of summer, and yet the wind persists in keeping me awake. I peer at the field through the dusty window, as the glinting light chases away the dull grey sky. Rays of sun trickle into the bedroom, spilling onto the wooden floor, then to the carpet, and then, to a neatly-folded outfit lying on the bedside table. A white shirt, beige pants, and murky brown shoes. Dad must have laid them out for me.

There’s only one reason for me, or any kid in District Nine, to be wearing such sleek garments. Every year, we put on our finest clothes for the most barbaric of ceremonies.

Another gust rattles the walls. I swear, one day, the wind will hit with enough force to flatten the entire village. I push myself out of bed, stumbling into the corridor as the wood squeaks below me. But I catch myself when I see Dad hunched over, snoring, in his chair. The gentle hiss of a crumbling cigar rises from his lips. In front of him sits a half-eaten roll of bread, and a strip of bacon. It’s clear, from the damp footprints on the floor, he just got back from work. I try my best not to wake him.

A bit more cautiously this time, I creep to the front door, still in my nightclothes. Sunlight spills into the room, I feel the cold morning air brush past me. From the porch, I look out into the field, rolling off into the golden horizon. The rest of the village stretches along the dirt path, bordering the endless field. Some windows flicker with candlelight, and few plumes of smoke puff up from chimneys. But most of us spent the night cold.

I search for a washbasin in a mess of pots and crates, piled up on the side of the porch. It’s not mandatory to scrub oneself down for the Reaping, but I’d rather not stand under the blistering sun while covered in yesterday’s grime and muck.

Another gust howls across the town. The windows shiver in the cold. I hear a metal pot clatter somewhere in the sea of shacks. I look out at the field: yellow casted in the blue light of morning, just as the sun paints it with its golden brush. 

But the field looks best in the wind. I’ve never been to the sea, but I know it would look something like these fields. Rows of corn and wheat rippling, crashing over one another, with the soft hiss of stalks and leaves: one of the few things I can’t find the words to describe. All I know is that it makes me feel safe.

I uncover the washbasin from under a canvas carpet, but a flurry of brown catches my eye. Underneath the carpet, trembling, soaking wet, rests a little brown dog. His little nose quivers, while what looks like a furry beard drips with rainwater; the poor thing must have used the canvas as a blanket. I rush back into the house, and come out with the sliver of bacon. I hope Dad won’t mind me taking it. I inch the meat to the dog’s nose, wondering if he’ll accept my gracious offering. His beady eyes look up at me, and very cautiously, he nibbles on the bacon.

Nibbles become bites, bites become one hefty swallow, as the dog gulps down the entire slice. Petting his fur, I notice he’s covered in a layer of mud. I guess we both need a bath.

“You wanna come with me?” I hold out my hands to the dog, who crawls from under his blanket and leaps into the basin.

“You got an owner?” I know neither Mom nor Dad would let me keep him. At best, they’d force me to drop him off at his owner’s doorstep. At worst, they’d cook him for a week’s worth of dinner.

He doesn’t have a collar, plus, he’s so unkempt that I’d doubt he’d even been given a bath in the past few years. Sighing to myself, I pick up the basin, and the two of us trudge towards the river.

* * *

There are three things anyone should know about District Nine.

Number one, it’s big. The so-called “Breadbowl of Panem” encompasses dozens of wheatfields, each one surrounded by its own conglomerate of farmhouses. The fields stretch on for miles, occupying a large portion of the country’s grasslands. Apparently, District Nine is situated on what was once called “The Great Plains,” a much older moniker that I much prefer.

Number two, it’s sparse. Our shacks and shanties are islands, separated by seas of grain. Most of the villages barely take up the space of a single street. Somewhere in the heart of Nine, sits the Central Town; our own “Little Capitol,” if you will. Cars are reserved for the Peacekeepers, so the only modes of transport are by tractor (which moves a mile an hour), or trolley car (which moves, get this, two miles an hour). I’ve only ever been to Central for Reapings and the occasional errand. As far as I know, most of our neighbors haven’t ever stepped foot beyond our street.

Number three, it’s quiet. Field shifts start at either dawn or dusk, and folks spend their off-hours at home, in much-deserved rest. Though, the hustlers take the hour-long trolley ride into town to make an extra buck. But for the most part, the neighborhood lies in serene slumber — most of all, now, when those from the evening shift tuck into bed, and those from the morning shift still have an hour of sleep to spare.

Today, however, the kids wake up earlier. Beatings are commonplace for latecomers.

We reach the incline of the riverbank, where I set down the basin. Both the dog and I dip our toes into the water: it’s cold, but bearable. We sit at the shallow edge; above us, on the other side of the river, the imposing silhouette of the district fence looks down on me. I take off my clothes and sit in the stream, while my thoughts wander towards the Reaping.

My name’s only been in there a handful of times. A minimum of five times for a sixteen-year-old, and only a couple accounts of tesserae. We aren’t wealthy by any means, but we get by. Both Dad and I work in the fields, night and day shift respectively. A full day’s work usually gets you a plate of stale bread and fruit for dinner. If you’re lucky, they’ll throw in some coins for coffee or meat. Mom, on the other hand, works in the mills of Central. Her pay is a lot higher, but labouring away among the factories and silos evidently takes its toll on the mind and body. Every other day, she can barely get out of bed.

Being of Reaping age means your work hours are shorter. It’s not a particularly official rule, per se, but the Peacekeepers have a soft spot for the village tots. Dad works from sunset to a few hours past midnight, while I only need six hours to get the same pay. The rest of the day is allocated for schooling and rest.

With school, there ain’t that much to discuss. The kids from our village gather at a dilapidated barn-turned-classroom, where it’s more self-study than actual school. The teacher can only handle the toddlers, while the older kids slave away with textbooks and diagrams. There’s really only one other sixteen-year-old, who, speak of the devil, I see making a beeline for the river.

“Good morning!” Elias shouts, way too loud for six in the morning. He narrowly avoids a shoe to the head.

I can’t help but laugh as he trips on his own feet, before jumping into the water. The splash startles the dog, who cowers behind my back.

“Quiet down, idiot,” I sneer at Elias. I’m both embarrassed on his behalf, and sorry for my prematurely-awoken neighbors.

“But Ma killed our last rooster,” Elias pouts, “somebody had to wake the people up.”

“Oh, so you admit to being an annoying little cock?” I smirk, before receiving a punch to the arm.

“Shut up, Meetry,” Elias laughs as I rub my forearm.

“Don’t call me that. Worst nickname yet.”

“Fine. How about ‘Dimmy’ instead?”

I splash water on him, sending Elias into a shivering frenzy.

“You know, ‘Dmitri’ was always preferred,” I mention as Elias dips chin-deep into the river, still shivering beneath the surface. His rusty-red curls swish about as they begin to soak. His eyes fall on the trembling puppy behind me.

“Aww, who’s hat?” Elias looks inquisitively at the pup, cautiously crawling as he approaches the ball of mud and fur — Elias looks like a puppy himself.

I motion for the dog to sit on my lap, and he does so apprehensively.

“I found him earlier. Poor thing was shuddering under a carpet.”

Elias strokes the pup’s fur, but recoils his hand suddenly. “Ugh, he’s all muddy…”

“Do you know what kind of dog he is?” Maybe the heir to the butchers’ shop might know a thing or two about dogs.

“What breed? Well…” Elias thinks, while playing with the little one’s paws, “he might be a terrier, judging by the beard.”

Elias and I start to scrub off the mud from fur, while the dog whinnies to itself. Once we’ve removed most of the grime and muck, I realise the dog’s mane is actually a rich reddish-brown.

“Hey!” Elias laughs, holding the dog up to his head, “You’re just like me!”

He’s right, they do look alike. And it’s not just because of the colour of their hair, but also their dopey-ness and uncontrollable slobber. I say as much to Elias, earning another punch to the arm.

“What should I name him?” I ask.

Elias frowns, “You’re not thinking of keeping him, are you?” He knows a dog, however small and vulnerable, is just another mouth for a family to feed.

“No, but it would be nice…” I watch the dog prance around the grass, “I could slip him some food every now and then.”

The two of us start scrubbing ourselves, washing away the dirt, dead skin, and mud from our fingernails.

“How about…” Elias rattles his brain, thinking of a name, “Well, since it’s Reaping Day, is ‘Reaper’ a good name?”

“ _Reaper?_ ” I repeat with disbelief, looking at the trembling ball of fur currently lying, ass-up, on the grass. Definitely not the most fitting of names. Then again, he might grow to become some massive guard-hound. Maybe then, “Reaper” could work. Gees, what am I thinking? It’s just a dog’s name.

“What, too edgy?” Elias snickers.

“You know what? Fine. ‘Reaper’ it is.”

Sunlight floods the riverbank, and then, the whole meadow. In the distance, beyond the fence, I see the rolling hills and dense forests, stretching off into the east. A quiet voice at the back of my mind urges me to run into those woods.

“Excited for today?” Elias asks mockingly, sighing as he scrubs between his toes, “ _I sure am_.”

“ _Can’t wait!_ ” I snort, “Always the highlight of my year.”

I begin to wonder how today’s events could play out. Every year, the kids of District Nine sit with those _what-if’s_ in the back of their minds. Most can end the day with a sigh of relief and go back to their quiet lives — all except one lucky boy and girl. The odds make it unlikely for us to be that one-in-a-million, but there’s always that fear that it could be your name blaring from the Justice Hall’s speakers.

“Scared?” Elias asks, more hushed. His fingers tremble as he rubs his towel over his hair. I nod, knowing I don’t have to ask him the same question.

“Hey, if it’s you,” I lean in towards Elias, and his brown eyes lock with mine, “I’d volunteer for you.”

Elias’s tremors fade, and his breathing subsides to a gentler pace.

“Me too,” he says, just as the sunlight turns his eyes a honey-like gold, “I’d volunteer for you too.”

And we just sit there, listening to the breeze as it dries our heads. The wind sweeps the grass with a quiet whistle. The river trickles and gurgles, and you can only really hear it with your eyes closed. Those _what-if’s_ become faded echoes, melting away in my mind. Now, it’s just me, Elias, and the newly-christened Reaper, sitting at the riverbank, watching the sun spill over the rooftops and chimneys of District Nine.

Together, we watch the dawn of a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations, traveller. You made it past chapter one! Hooray!
> 
> This is actually a revamped version of my first fic, which is still up on my page. The only difference is, this time, I actually have everything planned out! What a concept!
> 
> This chapter actually came out longer than expected? It’s five whole pages on my Google Doc, but the next few chapters will probably be a bit shorter.
> 
> Also yes it’s 24 chapters because I think that’s very fitting for the Hunger Games aha  
> Expect the next chapter sometime next week!
> 
> Feedback, suggestions, and kudos are very much appreciated :)
> 
> p.s. also lmao does anybody know if you can add pictures to ao3? kinda wanna add some sketches of the characters and setting. thanks!


	2. Reaper

**Dmitri Elburn  
District Nine  
Fieldworker**

The sun comes down on our backs like a cracking whip. One of the downsides of living on the far-edge of District Nine is that, by high noon, there’s nowhere to hide from the dazzling rays of the sun. Sweat drips off of my chin, and I know I’d do anything to have another dip in the river. I guess I’m already lucky to have even taken a bath in the first place.

We’re choraled into a trolley car by Peacekeepers, while the rest of the neighborhood waves a handkerchief to send us off. The metal of the cart groans as about twenty children squeeze inside. Elias is with me, but it took quite a long time for me to pry Reaper from his arms. Regardless of how attached the two had become over the course of a single morning, the Peacekeepers were steadfast in prohibiting any non-Reapables onboard, including dogs. Elias sits across from me, and we exchange reassuring glances as the trolley rouses from its slumber, and begins its journey to Central Town.

A twelve-year-old girl sitting next to me begins to whimper, clutching herself and trembling. _Crap_. I was never good with kids.

Just before I’m about to give this girl an awkward pat on the back, Elias leans in with a comforting smile.

“Hey, you have nothing to worry about.”

The girl sniffles, evidently doubting Elias, “R-Really?”

“You’re twelve, right?”

She nods.

“It’s only your first year. You’re name’s only been in there once,” he says with a reassuring squeeze of the girl’s hand, before chuckling as he reclines in his seat. How does he manage it? Whenever the teacher isn’t able to get to the barnhouse-turned-classroom in time, Elias steps forward to entertain the younger kids, even if he’d just gotten off a shift in the fields. I know _I couldn’t_ , even on a good day. I’d just stand there, not knowing how the hell I’m supposed to stop these kids from crying for the next hour.

“What about you guys?” The girl, wiping the last tears from her face, turns to me and Elias, “How many times have your names… been in the bowl?”

“Meetry’s been in there — what — seven, eight times?” Elias trails off while staring at the passing fields. “My name’s been in five times.”

Being the butcher’s son means there’s always enough food on the table. Though, you can never really wash the scent of pig’s blood off of your clothes.

The conversation in the trolley car is halted by a (very drunk) Peacekeeper, who makes a few lazy waves of his hand, and a low sigh of disgruntlement. In the silence, I gaze out of the window, at the golden-brown reeds rushing past. The fields are roped off by electrical lines loosely strung onto telephone poles, which pierce the bright blue sky. A rush of wind brushes over the fields, and into the sweltering trolley car, wringing a sigh of relief from its passengers.

And then, I spot him. It’s unmistakably him, but for a moment, I’m almost sure it’s a trick of my vision. But the ruddy-brown silhouette is undoubtedly dashing behind the trolley, fur flowing in the wind. Elias seems to notice too.

“Is that…?” He looks out of the rear-view window in disbelief. Reaper, in all of his blazing glory, charges behind us. Elias and I clamber to the tail end of the car; Reaper’s panting like a beast. Sure, the trolley is slow, but I’m still amazed this barely-foot-long dog was able to catch up, moreso in the unrelenting heat. I reach out for Reaper, grasping at his rusty locks of fur. Elias has to catch me from falling face-first onto the dirt road.

“What’s going on back there?” The (extremely drunk) Peacekeeper cocks his head back at us.

“Nothing, sir,” I say, just as Reaper jumps into my arms, and under one of the girls’ skirts, “Just dropped something. Sorry, sir.”

“Sit back down, would ‘ya?” The (horribly drunk) Peacekeeper falls right back to sleep.

The kids around us suppress chuckles as Elias holds a mischievous finger to his lips. Reaper scurries in between skirts and trousers, before huddling himself up behind the front seat. For the rest of the ride, the kids exchange giddy glances between themselves and Reaper. At least they’ll have something nice to look back on, at the end of an otherwise somber celebration.

* * *

The trolley squeaks and skids to a halt, and we are ushered off onto the gravelly road. Central Town isn’t anything like the village. Back home, everything’s settled nicely along a single road; just follow the scent of stale bread, and you’ll end up on your front porch. In Central, it’s easy to get lost in its labyrinth of alleyways and corridors. 

We trudge along to the Square, where the arresting form of the Hall of Justice stands, flanked by the many bakeshops and granaries of Central. Reaper tiptoes, surprisingly discreetly for a dog, behind Elias. I can’t help but feel the slightest twinge of jealousy. _He_ wasn’t the one who risked having his face scraped off on the dirt road, in order to get you into the trolley, now was he?

I’m almost blinded by the sun at this point — not to mention, the glaring spotlights shining down onto the Square. Did they really need to rig an entire lighting set-up for high-noon? Around us, windows filled with bread rolls and cakes line the square. On any other day, kids would be pressing their noses up to the glass, silently praying that maybe the smell of pastries would fill their stomachs. Today, however, the shops are all closed and darkened, leaving us out in the blaring sun.

As Elias and I join the rest of the sixteen-year-olds (joined by Reaper, of course), the glistening figure of Aloysius Whitlock strides forward on the stage. His outrageous white curls, accompanied by a hyper-reflective silver bodysuit, bob up and down as he approaches the microphone.

“Happy Hunger Games, District Nine!”

Scattered applause.

“May the odds be ever in your favour!”

We just want to go home.

Both the feedback from the speakers, as well as Whitlock’s sultry squeals, send a sharp throb through my head. Reaper doesn’t like it either, shivering beneath me and Elias’s feet.

By the time the silver-robed man is humming the final bars of the anthem, Elias has to bend down to comfort Reaper. Hopefully, none of the guards notice him among the sea of sixteen-year-olds.

The mayor rattles off the history of Panem: the Treaty of Treasons, the First and Second Rebellions, stories now buried deep in the ashes of their scriptures. Barely anybody can remember, or at least, would care to try.

The mayor concedes the stage back to Whitlock, who’s giddiness seems to almost burst at the seams.

“It is now time for us to pick one courageous young man and woman, for the mighty honor of being District Nine’s tribute representatives in the One Hundred and Twenty-Fourth Hunger Games!”

Whitlock’s practically jumping up and down as he approaches the girls’ glass bowl. He shuffles his hand among the hundreds — maybe thousands — of paper slips. He stops, and swiftly pulls out a single card, before sauntering on back to centre-stage.

“The female tribute for District Nine is…”

Inhale.

“Helena Bundon!”

The crowd across from us shuffles, and the sea of sixteen-year-old girls part to reveal the lucky tribute. She’s short, maybe slightly smaller than Elias, with two black braids falling down her back. Her hands tremble slightly, clutching her ragged floral dress. 

Immediately, a shrill scream erupts from the back of the audience. An elderly woman, draped in a dusty shawl, marches forward: the girl’s grandmother, probably.

Peacekeepers usher Helena onto the stage, while the rest of the girl’s family have to restrain the screaming woman from whacking a Peacekeeper’s helmet with her cane. _So she’s a Town Girl._ That would explain the presence of her shocked family, and the tattered state of her dress. People in Central aren’t as lucky as the fieldworkers.

Mrs. Bundon’s wails of sorrow recede into the wind.

Whitlock tries, and fails, to lighten the mood. His cursory questions are met with dazed, one-word answers. The girl has tears in her eyes, but remains as still as a rock. Only her hair, braided tightly with pink ribbons, dances in the wind.

Whitlock, somewhat cringing, proceeds to the second glass bowl. He rummages among the slips, and every boy in the Square quietly begs him not to pluck one of theirs. Whitlock meanders back to the mic, slip in hand. 

The slip opens. A silent prayer is whispered by the boys of District Nine. Not me. Not me. _Not me._

“Elias Verdugo!”

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh ohh 
> 
> Thanks for reading Chapter 2! This took quite a while to finish, school has been merciless. But, hooray! I have a five-day vacation, so expect the next chapter in a few days!
> 
> Hope you’re enjoying the story so far, and stay tuned for more! :))


	3. Hoplite

**Cera Mustang  
District Nine  
Victor of the 99th Hunger Games**

Through the dead air of the town, a voice erupts from the middle of the crowd. From the stage, I see the two boys. The shorter one — _holding a dog?_ — looks on in shock as Peacekeepers separate the pair. His hands grasp at empty air. The taller boy strides forward with his head held high. 

The crowd watches in disbelief. When was the last time District Nine had a volunteer? I’d doubt we’ve even had one before. There are many other methods of suicide available to us.

Bernhardt and Karnell let out sounds of slight shock as well, though Karnell seems more annoyed than intrigued at the prospect of extending the Reaping; his left eye twitches when he’s angry. Bernhardt, meanwhile, returns to staring back at the clouds in an oblivious wonder. I’d argue I’m the most composed of District Nine’s victors — or at least, the most mentally stable.

Aloysius — _Gods above, I hate his voice_ — does a whole spiel on the mighty valour of volunteering and how _being District Nine’s escort is truly an important role!_ Sure. I’ve been stuck in train cars with him long enough to know he’s been dying to be promoted for years. I can’t really blame him. Reapings in Nine are miserable affairs.

The boy introduces himself, though I don’t quite hear his name. Bomb shrapnel will do that to you. I left that arena at the cost of a functional right ear, and so much more. I look at the pair of tributes. What will it cost them to survive?

They shake hands. The boy’s a solid foot taller than the girl, but judging by his clothes, he’s from the outer villages. He’s softer, more docile. The fieldworkers don’t usually last long in the arena. They lack the dexterity of self-preservation of the townsfolk. 

Still, there’s a certain fervour that he carries himself with. I could see, when he volunteered to take his friend’s place, a determination not found in the emaciated children of Central Town. Whether that’s in his favour, or his fatal flaw, we’ll see in about a week.

The anthem blares throughout the square one more time, and the tributes pass me into the Justice Hall. Next to me, Bernhardt groggily gets up from his seat, and wobbles down the stone steps, where a shiny black car awaits him. I can’t say I’m not envious, though he’s earned his comfortable life. Plus, he got me through my games. The least I can do is take that burden from his shoulders.

The crowd dissipates, off to resume their daily schedules. Tonight, the well-to-do will host dinner parties in the mayor’s house. The rest will just be thankful their families got through another Reaping unscathed. Of course, Karnell and I won’t be joining any of the festivities; the two of us are promptly whisked into an armoured car. The tributes will join us later, aboard the train.

The drive to the station will be long and uneventful, so I may as well start forming a plan for the tributes. They don’t seem like much in terms of physical skill, nor survival tactics, nor charisma in any sense of the word.

But I have an inkling. This pair is going to be interesting.

* * *

**Dmitri Elburn  
District Nine  
Tribute of the 124th Hunger Games**

The sun’s still hovering above the horizon when my parents burst into the room, and I’m pulled into a tight embrace, from which I am powerless to pull away. I can’t imagine what the tense, hour-long ride from the village was like. I guess I’ll know soon enough, aboard the train to the Capitol.

We stand there, holding each other. Silence broken only by our quiet, shaky breaths. What’s it like to watch your child die? Worse still, to watch him jump at the chance to do so? They don’t know about my pact with Elias, but I’m sure they understand why I volunteered. That doesn’t make it any less painful.

Dad holds me out at arm’s length. Tears in his eyes. It takes every fibre of my being to keep my own eyes dry. He tells me all he can about survival: starting fires, healing wounds, which plants to gather and which ones to avoid. I don’t know how he knows all of this, but I try to memorise as much as I can.

Mom is in a tired, harrowed daze. Work hours at the mills go up and up, while wages go down. How much more energy could she possibly expend? But I can see her pain in the furrow of her brows, and how her lips quiver as words try to escape. She grabs my head, pressing it to hers. We stay like that for a while.

I take both of my parents’ hands, Dad’s in my left, Mom’s in my right. I kneel, pressing their hands to my forehead: District Nine’s longest-standing tradition. Children do so before going off on errands. Soldiers would do the same, bidding farewell to their families, before joining the war against the Capitol. In the time before the fences were built, and districts constricted, one would do so before embarking on a long journey.

I will not return from this journey. My parents know this as well. I hold their hands close.

A rapping on the door signals our time together is up. And all of a sudden, the hour we spent in silent embrace seems like mere seconds, and I beg the universe to allow me just a few seconds more. And then there’s the thudding of metal boots, and they’re gone.

* * *

Tributes from Nine are given until past nightfall to say their goodbyes, mostly because of the sheer distance between our homes and the Justice Hall. Apparently, other districts have yet to conclude their respective Reapings. That leaves me with a lot of time alone.

The sky has since turned a bluish-grey. I watch the faint rays of light falter against the dim, hardwood walls of the room. My parents should have returned to the village by now, likely to an entourage of sympathetic neighbors offering food and drink in light of their loss. I know the Verdugos will be among them. At least, in the short flicker of my life, I’d been able to save their son. I don’t dare to imagine myself a victor.

When was the last time Nine had a victor anyway? Maybe a couple in the past decades, but few ever make it to the final eight. Hell, few of us make it past the bloodbath. Farmhands don’t make it very far in the field of murder, I guess. If I could only get my hands on a scythe or sickle, I might have a shot at defending myself.

I run through Dad’s advice for the umpteenth time. Dry wood for a fire. Iodine for water. Dad’s sorrowful eyes. Mom’s battered daze— _Don’t go there, Dmitri._ Stay away from pain. Stay away from colourful berries. Stay away from carnivorous mutts. Stay away from the other tributes.

A knocking on the door pulls me from deep thought.

“Elburn. You have a visitor.” At this hour? The door creaks open, and Reaper scurries past. Elias is with him.

He runs towards me, wrapping me in a shivering hug. He cups my face in his hands, I see his auburn eyes glisten with tears. He’s saying things. Something about survival, or family, or not wanting to watch me die. I think he’s begging me to let him go into the arena instead. I don’t hear any of it. Just a blurry mess of syllables and tears. I can fear my own eyes well up with moisture. _I can’t cry. I can’t cry. I can’t cry._

What’s he even doing here, anyway? His parents must be looking for him. 

“The guards wouldn’t let me in since I wasn’t family,” he replies in shallow breaths. “Please, Dmitri, let me go instead. Please.”

There’s a fundamental divide between me and Elias, and it’s that I know how to be selfish. _This is the easy route,_ I tell myself. I will die, and he’ll be the one to watch. He will watch as I bleed out, and my cannon sounds, and he will carry that heartbreak for the rest of his life. But at least, he’ll have a life to live.

“The Reaping is final,” I tell him blankly. That’s the most rationale I can offer.

He seems to accept that as well. The tears in his eyes drip down like morning dew. The dying sunlight makes them shine like gold.

And then he presses a kiss to my lips.

“Come back to me.” Pained, but composed. I offer no reply. No promise. I simply stand in a daze of shock and sorrow.

And just as quickly, a Peacekeeper pulls him out of the room, with Reaper in tow. And then it’s just me, alone, watching the sunlight disappear through the dusty window.


	4. Daskalos

**Dmitri Elburn  
** **District Nine**  
**Tribute of the 124th Hunger Games**

I try my best not to feel anything. Grief bubbles up in my stomach, but I push it back down with a wall of indifference. I cannot show fear in the predatory eyes of the cameras.

It’s a bit of a blessing that tributes from District Nine get a couple more hours to recuperate before being thrust into the spotlight. More time to regain composure, and press down the pain. Tributes from other districts aren’t offered the same luxury. They’d clamber out of the Justice Hall looking like fresh prey caught between a mutt’s mandibles. I guess that’s not too far off from reality. Most tributes from outlying districts are as good as moving targets for arrows and spears.

Helena isn’t handling it as well as me. She tries her best to hold back her tears for the first ten minutes of the car ride, but she’s practically bawling before we’re halfway to the train station; I always expected the townsfolk to be tougher individuals, though I guess it’s not a universal truth. Watching my district partner cry isn’t helping me maintain a positive outlook.

No, not positive. Positive is deadly. Positive makes you hopeful. Hopeful makes you ignorant. Ignorant is what earns you a knife in the back. I go back to Dad’s advice. The most important things to consider if you want to go on living: food, water, fire, poison, animals, injuries. I add another thing to that list: the other tributes.

I glance back at the shaking silhouette of my district partner, and am overcome by the unsettling realisation that I may have to kill her. Every now and then, passing streetlights cast a yellow glow over her trembling body. Has she come to the same conclusion?

The lights of District Nine recede as we chase the imposing telephone lines that run along the dirt roads. It’s dark, though I wouldn’t fare any better if it were daytime. I barely ever go to the southern half of Nine. It’s mostly corn and barley, less wheat. Something about the elevation, or the soil type. All I know is that the seldom-used train station sits at the southernmost tip of the district, and I can see the faint fluorescent glow approaching.

By the time we pull up to the station, it’s packed with cameramen and reporters, who shoot blinding flashes of light in our direction, The light is even more jarring in the dead of night. Aloysius gets up groggily from his seat, but jolts into action when he realises we’re being broadcast on live television. I don’t understand what anybody’s saying — just a mishmash of questions and flashing lights and high-pitched Capitol accents. 

After a minute or so of this sensory onslaught, Aloysius pulls me and Helena into the train car. The doors shut with an air-tight hiss. The babbling and camera shutters suddenly vanish from earshot. There’s a faint wobble under our feet, and Aloysius announces we have begun departure.

We are led through a narrow corridor, which opens up into the lavish dining car. Maybe “lavish” is an understatement. Splayed out on several dozens of tables are platters of charred meats, glazed pastries, cheeses, fruits, and a hundred other delicacies I don’t have the names for. As we follow Aloysius, we pass a large, neon mound of gelatinous ooze. Next to it, a canister of hair-thin noodles soaking in a thick, orange broth. Sweet, sour, bitter, and spicy engulf me in an aromatic cloud. It’s as much a banquet of luxury as it is an assault on the senses.

“We can eat all of this?” Helena looks on in disbelief, plucking a stick of chocolate from its pile.

“Why of course, darling!” Aloysius strides forward, paying no attention to the food. “I’ll just be a moment, let me call your mentors.”

Helena and I plop down onto plush, velvet seats. Well, what now? The electrical hum of the train is so quiet, it may as well be dead-silent. I search the table for something to munch on, grabbing a handful of green nuts, and nibble on them one-by-one.

Helena is the first to break the silence. “Farm-boy?” She asks.

I nod. “And you?”

“Carpenters.” Saws, mallets, knives. I begin painting a portrait of this girl’s lethality. Morbid, yes, but necessary. In what ways is she useful? In what ways is she deadly? Her hazel eyes squint back at me, and I know she’s analysing me as well. I shouldn’t expect to become particularly good friends with her.

“Have you ever met them?” Helena looks at me. Still analysing. “The victors?”

I shake my head. Nobody in our corner of the district is really involved with any of the victors. The most I know is that each of their Games are spaced decades apart.

The compartment door slides open, and Aloysius bounces into another velvet seat. Behind him, stands a middle-aged woman, with perfectly-trimmed, shoulder-length hair. Up close, you can make out the worry lines etched gently into her face. Cera Mustang, our only female victor. Her fingers carry a black stick, from which tiny wisps of smoke escape into the air.

“Karnell will be here in a while. We’ll wait for him,” she says to nobody in particular. She plops down on a chair opposite of me. Her voice is hoarse, but carries a deep sense of command and authority. She scans both me and Helena, joining our little game of inspection.

“What are your skills?” Cera peers at the two of us.

“My parents are carpenters,” Helena starts, “I can handle a saw pretty well.”

“There aren’t usually saws in the arena,” Cera interjects.

“I’m decent with a knife,” Helena shoots back. She looks like she’s about to prove so, by fiddling with a butter knife, but stops herself, and picks another chocolate stick to nibble. Cera shifts her gaze to me, eyebrow raised.

I try my best to recall all my greatest strengths as a fieldworker. “I’m used to long exposure to sunlight. I can also use a pitchfork, and sickle.”

A gleeful laugh erupts from behind me. “A pitchfork and sickle! That fits the district brand! It’ll help with sponsors.”

I turn to see the stocky figure of a man only referred to by his surname: Karnell. He looks a lot more disheveled than how he did during the Reaping, and I am harshly reminded that that was only a few hours ago.

Karnell drags forward a metal stool, saying something about being excited for this year’s Games. His voice sounds young and cocky, but also tired, and very, very drunk.

“How about exposure to sunlight?” Cera continues.

I over-indulge my answer to make myself seem more impressive. “My shifts in the field are ten hours, dawn to dusk.” Though, it’s true that the fieldworkers have built up a resistance to the sun’s rays: my olive complexion proves as much.

“That could make you better suited for a savannah, or a desert.” Cera takes a puff from her black smokestick. I can see Karnell shift uncomfortably in his seat.

Karnell’s victory was the only one I was alive to remember. His arena was fondly nicknamed “the Hellscape.” Barely a toddler, I watch the skin peel off of the tributes’ bodies in the scorching desert heat. Karnell won after destroying the other tributes’ water supply. It was joyous, really, when the whole district realised we might finally have another victor. Karnell brought back pride and parcels to District Nine, but I can only imagine how he plummets back into the Hellscape, just at the mention of the word “desert.” He takes a long swig from his glass, before quickly changing the subject.

“So who takes who?”

Cera looks up inquisitively, before starting. “For now, we will strategise as a team, but later on, you two can choose to be mentored individually. The two of you can’t be allies forever.”

I like Cera. Whereas other victors fall into perpetual intoxication upon winning, Cera remains the ideal depiction of an aged victor. Composed, strategic, makes no attempt to sugarcoat the situation. One way or another, between me and Helena, at least one of us is going to die. I guess that kind of mindset is what allows one to become a victor in the first place.

Dinner continues as we watch a recap of the other Reapings. Helena and I shift our focus onto the competition. I take note of who could be a threat, and who could be an ally; body language is key.

The recap starts with the classically graceful girl from District One. She is joined by her paramour, an equally elegant young man. They kiss as the crowd cheers for them. Crowd-favourites. Likely to get sponsors. Lethal.

Next, the pair from Two. The boy is significantly smaller than his district partner. I expect he’ll be the first Career to die. Not a threat. His partner, meanwhile, is pure muscle. She looks viciously into the camera, as if to challenge her competition. Lethal.

The pack is completed by the hulking figures of both volunteers from Four. Their district is always the most unpredictable. There’s no guessing in which way they are most efficient: tridents, knot-tying, fishery. It’s always safe to assume, however, that they will also be lethal.

Beyond the Career districts, it’s a whirlwind of misery. The boy from Five cries as he is dragged onto the stage. The crowd in District Six riots as a teenage girl is separated from an infant. An emaciated boy from Eight can barely climb onto the stage without collapsing.

We flash to the dusty town square of Central. On the screen, Helena stands unaffected as her grandmother wails in horror. Now, she’s given the allowance to break down in tears. And then, a sea of heads turn towards me. Elias reaches out for me — I didn’t even realise he was shouting — and I stand stoically atop the Justice Hall stage. 

And it all comes back to me. The morning at the river. Reaper. Elias shouting my name. The kiss at the back of the Justice Hall. What am I leaving behind? I join Helena’s sobbing. Cera pauses the program, while Aloysius fetches us some tissues and ice cream. My tears mix into the sweet delicacy, which melts over my tongue. Helena and I thank Aloysius for the gesture, and he presses a button to resume the recap.

We’re followed by the girl from Ten, with spiky black hair, who snarls at the escort when her name is called. Finally, a pair of siblings — possibly twins — from District Twelve. They look almost triumphant as they walk into the Justice Hall, hand-in-hand.

By the time the recap’s finished, the cups of ice cream have already been whisked away. We discuss the other tributes, potential strengths and weaknesses, threats, and allies. Cera gives us some instructions on how to go about striking up alliances. Aloysius says something about how tomorrow will be a “ _big, big day!_ ” and Cera promptly dismisses us to bed.

As we exit the dining car, I hear the trickling of alcohol as it fills Karnell’s glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed it from “126th Hunger Games” to “124th Hunger Games” because I made a mistake in counting!
> 
> My apologies, mathematics is my mortal weakness.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Metropolis

_High noon._

_Searing white._

_Elias carries Reaper. The trolley bell rings. I stand on the tracks, feet bolted to the ground, as I watch the car leave._

_No. I have to follow. Or else, Elias will be reaped, and he will fight in the Hunger Games._

_And Elias will die. He will die of thirst, and he will starve, and he will be pierced by the District Two girl’s sword. And the twins from Twelve will dance around his corpse as the blood drains from his chest. His body will become cold._

_I will not let his body become cold._

_I run, lunging forward as my heels call thunder. The trolley speeds away, farther, farther, farther. I keep running. My legs burn and my arms burn and my entire body feels like it’s boiling under the summer heat. And yet, I keep on running._

_I reach out my arms to Elias, shouting at him to grab on. He stands at the car’s rear end, holding Reaper, with his gentle arms and gentle eyes and gentle laugh. The same lips that kissed me, spread into his bright, inviting smile._

_Warm gold._

_I scream at him, begging him to let me go in his stead. I beg him to stay alive. I cannot let him become cold. I’m at arm’s reach from the back of the car._

_And then Reaper tackles me to the ground, and rips out my throat._

* * *

**Dmitri Elburn  
District Nine  
Tribute of the 124th Hunger Games**

There is a dull, throbbing pain on the nape of my neck, but it’s not a bite. My throat is intact, though stiff. No blood, no serious injuries; I am safe, _relatively speaking_. I get up from the plush, fluffy pillows, cursing them for allowing my neck to ache. I tumble into the marble bathroom, pressing some unholy combination of buttons, and feel the warm water wash the cold sweat off of my back. 

As I am hoisted out of dreamland, I reorient myself with reality. _I am no longer in District Nine. I volunteered for the Hunger Games. Elias is safe. Reaper hasn’t bitten me. My family is grieving._ It’s a lot less embarrassing to cry in the shower; I can let my tears blend with the cascading water. 

I switch off the shower, and a small, blinking button catches my eye. I am relieved when it doesn’t explode upon pressing. Instead, a warm river of air covers my naked body, dispelling any remaining droplets of water. I grab a towel, but only to cover my now-dry self. Steam fills the rest of the cabin as I slip into the same clothes I’d worn for the Reaping. 

Outside, the sky is still a dull shade of greyish-blue, though the clock says it’s just a few minutes to seven. The train weaves in between valleys, and cuts through mountains. Faint shafts of sunlight sometimes grace the cabin every now and then, before I am plunged into complete darkness once more. 

When we emerge on the other side of the mountain range, the sparkling floods my eyes, as the majestic skyline of the Capitol welcomes me to a world unknown. On the other side of a glistening lake, the multicoloured metropolis reflects the sunlight, off of its thousands of stained windows and golden facades. As the sun ricochets in between the many buildings, the city is cast in a faint, yellow glow. _It looks like a wheatfield._

As we circle the ginormous lake, I make a game of comparing the different skyscrapers to stalks of grain. A circular tower plastered in rounded windows resembles a cob of corn, reflecting the yellow sun. A thin spire that branches out towards the top reminds me of a bountiful stem of wheat. Towards the lakeshore, rows of smaller buildings poke out of the water, almost like the semi-aquatic rice bundles that grow in the paddies. 

We’re about halfway around the lake when Aloysius swings the door open. Whatever happened to privacy?

“Dmitri, dear! We’re about to arrive. _Do_ get out of those dreadful clothes!”

He points to an outfit on the bed, which I hadn’t even noticed. A green cotton shirt, silky black pants, and shoes embroidered with a tasteful floral pattern: a week’s worth of dinner back in Nine. Aloysius gives me an exasperated huff, before storming off to the dining car. I hear him shout something about the clothes’ exorbitant price. 

But I keep my Reaping outfit. I feel the coarse material of my button-up against my skin. The pants are ill-fitting, and already too worn from years of use. But I drape myself with District Nine, and I will, for as long as I can. I will hold on to home.

I follow Aloysius to the dining car, where invisible attendants have already laid out a breakfast banquet; not as much as yesterday’s dinner, but still more than enough. Our mentors are there too: Karnell grumpily pours another cup of coffee, while Cera stares observantly out the window. Outside, I can already see the crowds flocking about the station. 

Helena walks in after me, wearing the prescribed Capitol clothes. Honestly, it’s an improvement from her Reaping dress, which looked like it had been mauled by dogs. I shudder, as the image of Reaper tearing my neck emerges once more. I go grab a plate of fruits and bread, to occupy myself with something over than my own intrusive thoughts.

“You’ll be meeting your stylists and prep teams today,” Cera starts, still staring out the window, “Helena will go with Basilius. Dmitri, you’re with Erin.”

Helena and I exchange glances; we’re both uneasy at the prospect of being poked and prodded by a team of Capitol beauticians. I can’t really find it in myself to trust the aesthetic sensibilities of a Capitolite: what with their cat whiskers and snake eyes. But, as if sensing this, Cera turns to face us.

“You can trust them. I was with Erin for my Games. Same goes for Karnell, with Basilius. We’re old friends.” She gives the hint of a smile, before turning back to the window.

The train falls to a gentle halt, and Aloysius gathers us at the main door. He spends a couple minutes fussing over our appearances, fixing stray hairs and overlooked buttons. I don’t really get the purpose of it, since we’re about to be _re-beautified_ , as it were, in just a few hours. The train doors slide open, and we are greeted by the roaring of the crowd, who are roped off just outside of the station. 

We step off of the train, onto a rather on-the-nose red carpet. Karnell flashes an uncharacteristically charming smile, before whispering under his breath, “smile and wave.” Helena and I, not ones to ignore a victor’s advice, give grotesque, toothy smiles to the colourful sea of Capitol citizens. 

They go absolutely buckwild.

* * *

**Adonis Karnell**  
**District Nine**  
**Victor of the 112th Hunger Games**

The crying and shrieking almost turns the Remake Center into a nightmarish hospital ward. A large, linoleum hallway lined with curtained-off booths for each tribute. The atmosphere’s coldly medical, except for the cosmetic Capitol monstrosities bouncing around the hall. I hear a _rip!_ as a poor girl loses the hair on her legs, and she stifles a wail of agony. 

How much do Capitolites abhor natural flesh? Chemicals to give your skin a pearly sheen. Vocal surgeries to soften the sound of breathing. A helmet fitted with a dozen-or-so syringes that poke into your scalp. _It’s for baldness!_ A woman/porcupine once told me, though if it’s for preventing baldness, or inciting it, I never got to ask.

They say the Remake Center is the best place to assess a tribute’s chances. Sure, the charmers love to gloat during televised appearances, and the show-offs can go absolutely ham during training sessions, but the Remake Center is the ultimate equaliser. There is no experience more visceral, or more horrifying, than lying on a cold metal table, as three Capitol strangers scrub you down to Beauty Base Zero. 

This is the real horror of the Hunger Games. 

The tributes’ booths are lined in numerical order; girls on the left, boys on the right. Walking down the aisle, I can catch glimpses of their utter fear and confusion through the plastic curtains. 

The tributes from One seem to be taking it well. They usually require the least “fixing” in the eyes of the Capitol. Though, the girl still lets out a surprised gasp when she’s stabbed with a needle of dye. She lets out a nervous laugh, and stares, wide-eyed, as her skin starts to sparkle with powdered-gold.

They always go overboard with the kids from Two. Even for eighteen-year-old killing machines, the amount of contour on their muscles is frankly ridiculous. The boy has it worse; his small stature makes him look like a multi-shaded mess of underdeveloped sinew. 

There’s a clatter, bang, and thud from a few booths over. The girl from Four — Leu, if I remember correctly — holds a scalpel to a blubbering stylist’s throat. “Don’t touch my hair, you bitch!” She shouts, but backs away when a guard threatens her with a taser. Her district partner — his name escapes me — wears a mask of indifference. He’s arguably the largest tribute this year, and the prep team is having an absolute blast covering his muscles with blue and green paint. 

I make my way past the rest of the outlying districts, most of whom are still overwhelmed by their surroundings. I stop in front of a booth with a black number nine painted on its curtains. My tribute is in there. 

Helena recoils at the sound of the sliding curtains, but relaxes when she sees it’s just me. Her prep team is conspicuously missing.

“You look good,” I say, and indeed, the scars of Central Town-life have miraculously vanished from her skin.

“Thanks.” She undoes her braids, letting the newly-softened black hair fall down her shoulders. “This is the probably the prettiest I’ll ever be… like fattening a pig before the slaughter.”

“Looks are just as deadly a weapon as any, especially in the Games.” I sit down next to her. “ _It’s show-biz, baby._ ”

She looks at me sceptically.

“I know from experience,” I say, not wanting to delve into that can of worms any further, “So how are you feeling?”

 _How are you feeling?_ Definitely among the worst things to ask someone in this situation. _Oh, I’m feeling just fine, having accepted my imminent, violent demise._ How else are you supposed to respond without wanting to collapse in on yourself? And yet, I ask anyway, because the victors are just as clueless as the tributes. 

“Bad.” Helena states the obvious. Well, that’s one way to put it. “Don’t think the odds are particularly in my favour.”

“And why’s that? You’re a carpenter, right? The woodworkers from Seven are usually just as strong as Careers.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that.” She turns her eyes to the booth opposite her’s. “He’s bound to be a celebrity.”

I look across the aisle, where her district partner is being pampered by an overly-excitable prep team. Of course, the valiant volunteer, who’s sure to be a Capitol favourite. I’m sure the Gamemakers will milk that for whatever it’s worth, and his sob-story will surely earn him a fleet of silver parachutes. But the cameras won’t show how much his sacrifice truly hurts — they never do. But nobody ever goes into the arena by choice, and choice alone. I almost feel sorry for him. 

But he’s Cera’s tribute, not mine. I have my own duties as a mentor. Dmitri is deadlier to Helena than any Career, because there is no business more cutthroat than television. I can ensure Helena’s safety later; for now, I must ensure her fame.

I grin, looking into Helena’s eyes, and I feel sick to the stomach when the words come out of my mouth. 

“You won’t have to worry about him.”

_It’s show-biz, baby._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m thinking of creating a separate fic that focuses more on world-building. Specifically, why the Second Rebellion failed in this AU. Would y’all be interested? 
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading! I think (hope) I’m finally getting into the rhythm of writing regularly, so I will (hopefully) be updating this fic once every week. 
> 
> Stay safe, everyone! Always wash your hands.


	6. Calliope

**Dmitri Elburn  
District Nine  
Tribute of the 124th Hunger Games**

The whole room reeks of perfume and antiseptic. I am hit by whiffs of sweet magnolia, immediately followed by the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol. Rose, lavender, and jasmine mix with whatever chemicals my prep team is spraying onto my skin. I have to hold my breath to fend off this aromatic assault. 

The prep team members themselves look more like abstractions of the human form, rather than actual, real people. A mess of dyed skin, synthetic hair, and talons. From afar, they’d look more like clowns than beauticians. 

A pudgy man named Clotto, whose face is wider than it is long, struggles to dislodge a hairbrush from my “thick, grime-y mane.” His words, not mine. For the Capitol, anything below silky-smooth is abhorrent. His brush hits a particularly tight snag, and I have to bite the side of my mouth to keep from screaming. 

A spindly, slender woman named Lachessa lathers my legs in a warm, flowery oil. She smooths out a strip of tape onto my right leg, before ripping it off with a devilish grin. This time, I actually do yelp in pain. She coos, caressing my face with a bony finger. 

Her finger is slapped away by the burly hands of Atropo. He shrieks, “Not the face! Away from the face!” while vigorously rubbing my cheeks with some skin ointment. His fingers are a touch too heavy, and I fear he may break my jaw from how hard he’s rubbing. There seems to be some obsession with perfect skin in the Capitol, evident in how numb my facial muscles now feel. 

“You know,” Atropo starts, “you’re the first volunteer from Nine in ages! You’re all anybody’s talking about.”

Atropo is the most talkative of the three. Usually, I’d enjoy that quality in a person. But certainly not right now. 

“That’s not entirely true,” Lachessa replies to him, “Did you see the Ones? Phoebus and Diana, I believe. Absolutely gorgeous, those two—“

“Oh, but that poor thing from Five?” Clotto contorts his flat face into what I assume is a frown. The other two join him, babbling on and on about this year’s lineup. This would be a good opportunity to gain valuable information on my competition, but the incessant squealing of my prep team is too much more my ears to handle. So, I try my best to dissociate, and sink away from the situation.

I’m no different from these people, am I? Neither of us can remain human. Whereas Capitolites strip away all sense of self through their cosmetic war crimes, I am dehumanised by virtue of participating in the Games. I am not a person to them, but a pawn. Plaything. One-off character in a one-off television show, who will live, die, and suffer at their disposal, without the respect any human being deserves. 

Though, I’d prefer that over becoming one of them. A greasepaint disaster, like the ones who currently surround me. 

I think of the tributes from last year: two kids from Central, whose ghosts probably haunt my train car, and my apartment, and maybe even this cold, lifeless table. Even though we’d never met them, nor their families, nor anybody remotely associated with them, the village passed around baskets when they died. We collected bread, oil, wine, whatever consolation we could offer, in the face of utter desolation. We went without food for days, and yet, we felt it was worth it. Everybody understands hunger in Nine. And everybody knows that there is no hunger more painful than grief. 

And what does the Capitol do? Cart the dead home in dusty, wooden boxes. Slap a worthless medal onto the younger sibling’s chest. They don’t even give headstones. We bury them beneath the fields, where their withering bodies imbue the soil with new life. They die as they lived: giving and giving and giving until they are shrivelled husks for the Capitol to forget. 

More than the antiseptic, or the perfume, this is what makes me sick. I lurch forward, releasing my breakfast onto the linoleum tiles. My prep team shrieks as I convulse on the ground. Atropo sheepishly hands me a tin bucket, before my dinner threatens to make a reappearance as well. 

I sit there, in my own sick, letting the shivers fade from my body. The sound of the sliding curtains draws my attention. 

“And what did you do to the poor thing?” A dry, unfamiliar voice barks at the prep team. Behind me stands a woman, clad in black leather. Her head is half-shaved, half-mess of blonde curls. Her presence is subtle, yet commanding.

“Erin, thank goodness! He just started…” Atropo looks at me and the puddle of vomit, “...spewing.”

“Call someone to clean up, please.” Erin steps forward, crouching down to get a better look at me. She cups my spew-soaked face in her hands. Her harsh, golden eyes bore holes into mine.

An Avox mops up the sick and spittle, and Erin dismisses the prep team as well. “You can go,” she says, before my flower-scented friends scurry away. 

Erin hands me a towel to wipe the indigestion from my face. She makes me drink some blueish-green concoction, which makes my throat feel like cotton, and fills my mouth with the taste of mint. “Helps with the spewing,” she explains, setting down a large metal suitcase. 

Undoing the locks of the case, she says, “This isn’t my first time with Nine, and I’ve made enough farmer-outfits to clothe an entire district,” she glances at me, smirking, “Forgive me if your outfit is a tad… unconventional.”

“I’m not going to be naked, am I?” I ask, half-joking. Nudity doesn’t necessarily match with District Nine’s industry, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the Capitol dressed me as a naked loaf. Bread, after all, is quite close to the colour of bare flesh.

To my relief, Erin shakes her head. “A bit too degrading, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Don’t worry, nudity isn’t as trendy as it used to be. Oh, but you will have to get naked so I can dress you.”

I disrobe myself apprehensively, until I am left in only my underwear. The room seems to get a lot colder, so I huddle my limbs together.

“So, what _is_ the trend nowadays?” I ask, praying for something that doesn’t require any stripping. 

“Lately, there’s been a return, of sorts, to the classics. Have you ever heard of a country called Greece?” Erin asks, rummaging through her suitcase. 

I vaguely remember reading something about Greece from an old atlas, stored in a dusty box at the back of the village schoolhouse. Before the rising waters erased most sea-level land, it had once been a sprawling empire that covered hundreds of islands. Apparently, the annual blood sport we call the “Hunger Games” is derived from the Greeks’ own annual competition. I can’t really remember if people died in those games too.

I don’t really know what any of that has to do with District Nine, so Erin continues. “Now, the whole thing’s at the bottom of the ocean. But back then, it was the cultural centre of the west, as it were. Their architecture was beautiful. Their sculptures were exquisite. Oh, the food was _divine_.”

She tosses me a large, cream-coloured piece of silk. The smooth, silvery cloth sparkles faintly in the fluorescent light. I use it to cover myself temporarily, both from the cold air, and from Erin’s golden eyes. 

“Speaking of divinity,” Erin continues, “the people of Greece worshipped an entire pantheon of gods. They’d pray for a multitude of things: for marriage, war, weather—“

My eyes catch the glow of the sleek, golden crown in Erin’s hands, which appears to be made of an olive branch.

“—and perhaps most importantly, for a bountiful harvest.” She cautiously places the crown on my head.

“I’m a farm-boy,” I retort, “You want to make me look like a god?” 

“You’ll need to catch the crowd’s attention,” Erin replies, “Sure, you volunteered, but that’s hardly enough to stay in the spotlight. The Careers will, for no doubt, follow the trend. If you want to stay alive, just do as I say.”

She unfurls the silky cloth, revealing its form — more precisely, its lack thereof. I was expecting it to be a tunic, or maybe even an ill-fitting bodysuit. This just looks like a very soft, very expensive towel. 

“What’s this?” I chuckle in semi-disbelief. 

“ _A chitón_ ,” my stylist dryly replies. 

Erin spins me this way and that, fastening the fabric at different places with her handful of safety pins. When she’s done, the cloth hangs gently from my left shoulder, draping over my chest, before falling to just above my knees. I feel the smooth fibres caress my post-Atropo skin.

“It’s actually supposed to be made of wool, but that just didn’t fit the feel we wanted, you know?” Erin fastens a golden cord around my waist. I’m beginning to sense a theme here.

I slip on a pair of straw sandals. Not golden, but roughly the same colour. I guess they also fit with the district industry. As a finishing touch, Erin brushes my eyelids with a soft, gold paint. She steps back, admiring her masterpiece, and when I look in the mirror, I find myself transfixed as well. Erin has made me a god.

* * *

I’m led into a massive, stone room, where a row of chariots stands at the ready. I make my way to the chariot marked by my district number, towards the back wall of the room. 

Erin has since gone off to the Tribute Center, where she’ll meet us after the parade. Cera and Karnell seem to have done the same, and Helena still hasn’t arrived. Relishing in this newfound quiet, I casually lean myself against the edge of the chariot. 

I look around at the rest of the chariots, where most of the tributes have already gathered. As predicted, the Careers have all followed the Greek motif. The Ones — Phoebus and Diana, as Lachessa told me — with their pure-white togas and diamonds. The Twos, in their brick-bronze plates of armour. The Fours, holding silver tridents, covered in sea-coloured paints, and draped in deep-blue cloaks. It’s all very exquisite, and all very over-the-top. 

The other districts don’t differ as much with the extravagance of their costumes, but the tributes all seem far less arrogant than the Careers, which I can enjoy. The pair from Three have sparkly lightning bolts protruding from their temples. The pair from Seven are adorned with grapevines, branches, and brambles. I realise they are _actual_ grapes, when the boy plucks one from his headdress, and pops it into his mouth. 

Some districts don’t seem to be following the whole Greek trend. The pair from Six are covered head-to-toe in gears, doused in full-body bronze paint. I’m assuming it was supposed to resemble a bronze vehicle, but the colour looks more like motor oil. The pair from Eight are wearing some sort of textile catastrophe: a patchwork of mismatched fabrics and patterns. The pair from Ten are dressed as cows.

I look around, hoping to find a familiar face, but there’s no sign of Helena. That’s when I catch the penetrating gaze of the girl from Four. 

I freeze, feeling once again like prey under the watchful glare of a predator. Even from across the room, I can see her grey eyes pointed at me, menacingly. _Shit_. I turn around, awkwardly stroking the horse’s mane. I knew my volunteering would attract unwanted attention and resentment, especially from the Careers, but I hadn’t expected it to manifest so soon. My divine costume isn’t doing me any favours, either. 

“Hey.” I almost jump at the sound, but I find it’s just Helena, who had somehow crept up without me noticing. 

“You look nice,” she says. She herself is dressed in an outfit similar to mine: silk chiton, straw sandals, and golden cord at the waist. The only difference is a much larger headpiece at the back of her head, which juts out in a circle, resembling the shining sun. Very godlike, indeed.

“So do you,” I say in response.

“Don’t lie, this thing looks awful.” She gestures to the headpiece.

“It’s a bit… much.”

“Well, Karnell insisted.” She glances at me, and then away, to the surrounding chariots.

There’s an unspoken tension hanging in the air. Helena and I are partners, maybe even friends, but only for now. When the spotlights die down, and the pedestals rise, who knows what we will become? Allies possibly, or enemies, murderers, a threat to the other’s survival. But that’s an eternity away. There’s a whole week of training, and televised appearances, and of tactics and strategy. 

And yet, I feel the rupture. The schism. The headdress, clearly meant to pull attention away from me, the volunteer, and to Helena instead. We cannot coexist forever. The clock is ticking. 

The fanfare of the anthem pulls me from my pondering. In front of us, a pair of large, stone doors open with a grave rumble. The sound of trumpets, percussions, and the rabid cheering of the crowd floods my ears. The vibrations coarse through my body, shaking me to my core. But I compose myself, stopping another bout of sickness. The roaring deafens me, pulling my focus to the glow of the city. 

The chariots charge forward, into the cacophony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the title, since I wasn’t ever satisfied with the first one. To avoid confusion, this fic used to be titled “Harvest Season.” I much prefer this one, bc I think fits with the general vibe of the story :)


End file.
